


Good Kid

by StarlightXNightmare



Series: Magic is Within [1]
Category: Undertale
Genre: Angst, Child Abandonment, Crying, Denial, Determination, Frisk is just kind of good at bottling feelings up, Poor Frisk, Separation Anxiety, kind of, mentions of starving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 16:03:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightXNightmare/pseuds/StarlightXNightmare
Summary: Frisk just wants to be acknowledged as a good kid for once.





	Good Kid

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

Frisk was awoken by a loud clap of thunder, startling them into jolting hard, gray blue eyes wild and heart rate skyrocketing. They gasped, trying to suck air into their lungs. Their eyes were met with dark gray storm clouds blanketing the once bright blue sky and warm sun. Fat drops of rain fell from the dreary sky, splattering on the gravel road and hammering against the thin, tin roof of the bus stop.

A glance down the sodden gravel road showed that no one was coming.

They breathed in and let out a shaky sigh, drawing their legs in so their knees were pushed underneath their oversized blue and purple striped sweater. A yawn escaped them, hand instinctively moving to cover their mouth. Their muscles felt painfully bunched up from falling asleep in such an awkward position. They tensed, inhaling a sharp breath when a flash of lightning forked across the sky and a roar of thunder followed.

They didn't like the rain—even less so with lightning and thunder. It just looked so depressing. They'd normally make the bad situation better by splashing in puddles but they'd been told to stay put.

Forcing their body to relax, they let their head thump against the dirty glass of the bus stop. Their stomach growled in protest—demanding food.

Their parents had left them at the bus stop, saying they'd be back after a party they went to. They told them to sit still—to not move from this spot—and left them with their backpack full of snacks and school textbooks.

Sitting still had been easy at first. They simply sat on the bench in the shelter of the bus stop, watching the gravel road intently for any signs of their parents old car coming back to pick them up. That night they had laid down on the rotting wooden bench, arm cushioning their head as they stared over the silent forest and up into the starry night sky. It had been a typical chilly October night—it was fine; they were wearing their sweater.

The second day of waiting had been much harder. Every inch of their being had been screaming at them to get up and run around, play, stretch, explore— _anything_. Despite all the discomfort—physical and mental—they felt when they resisted the urge to move, they remained in the same spot, legs kicking and bouncing as they waited for their parents to get back. 

They were told to stay in one spot and—unlike the other times—they were going to resist the temptation to get up and explore their surroundings.

It got harder to control the urge on day three but they merely sat there, nails digging into the weak wood of the bench. They read their school textbooks, eyes flicking up from the pages to stare down the gravel road longingly every minute or so, constantly switching their position—pulling their legs up on the bench, lying down on their sides, back, and stomach, sitting on the edge of their seat, back pressed against the back of the bench. They did everything they could to find a position that felt comfortable enough to keep the urge to move and explore at bay. They counted trees, listened to the birds' songs, slept, stared down the road, read, ate, daydreamed, counted the gravel pieces... they did anything that kept their mind off of how much they wanted to get up and move.

The third day was when they ran out of snacks. Eating was one of the only things they could do without moving. They were on their last bottle of water by day three as well.

Here they were: on the fourth day, hiding from the thunderstorm in an abandoned bus stop with no food and little water.

They shivered—the wind was beginning to bite through their sweater. They hid their face in their knees, eyes stinging uncomfortably. They tried to suck in a deep breath but only managed in scaring themself that if they failed, they would cry.

Crying was bad; crying was wrong. It made noise no one wanted and their parents hated them crying. It drew attention to them and made other people ask what was wrong.

This time when thunder ripped through the air, Frisk whimpered, curling in on themself. Warmth trickled down from their shut eyes and down their cheeks as they drew in a shuddery gasp. A sleeve of their sweater came up to swipe away the wetness trailing from their eyes.

They wanted their parents to come back and pick them up, cradle them close, and tell them that everything was okay. But they wouldn't—why would they ever do that for a kid they hadn't even planned on having, let alone didn't even want?

They wanted the storm to end—for the lightning to disappear and the thunder to be muted. But it wouldn't.

They'd be a good kid and stay put this time.

A choked, hiccupy sob tore itself from their throat.

Just as long as someone came to get them soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Frisk's parents are dicks™


End file.
